Page 316 of Immune

Fletcher’s entire body shudders the moment I sink down on him, my tongue dragging over the underside of his thickened length. The hand above him slams flat against the post, the wood groaning under his palm. His other hand stays behind his back, fingers curled into a fist so tight I can practically hear the strain of his knuckles, and the sight of him holding himself there for me makes heat flood through every part of me.

With slickness pooling between my legs and my heartbeat drumming in my ears, I take him deeper. His hips do not move, not even once. A small tremor runs through his thighs, though, proving he’s not unaffected at all. His clenched jaw does the same thing, and I love it. I hate that I love it. No, I don’t.

Fletcher’s chest works with every breath he pulls in, his head dipped while he watches me with such fierce focus that I feel seen in a way that should be impossible from my knees.

Not small.

Not owned.

Powerful.

I pull back enough to breathe, hand replacing my mouth. While I stroke him up and down, I instruct, “Touch my hair.”

His hand above him flexes.

“Only my hair,” I add quickly.

The sound he makes is almost pain, but it’s one of the sexiest things that have graced my ears. Then his fingers slide into my hair. He’s exceptionally careful at first. Way too careful, so I look up at him. He understands immediately, his grip tightening. He’s not forcing, just holding. Anchoring. My scalp prickles with his touch and my body lights up like how I remember fireworks would color the sky every Fourth of July.

I take him into my mouth again and, this time, when his fingers curl harder, I moan around him.

“Fuck,” he grits out, the word scraping directly down my spine. I keep going until his control starts to fray for real, sucking and swallowing around him. I keep going until his breathing turns rough and choppy. Until his hand in my hair starts shaking with how desperately he wants to move me and how fiercely he refuses.

When I pull away, Fletcher’s eyes open. He looks absolutely ruined.

Good.

I stand and his hand falls from my hair immediately. His voice is nothing more than a graveled rasp when he says my name, almost like a prayer on his lips. “Dakota.”

“My turn to give orders,” I tell him, and his jaw tightens.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Oh, fuck. Well, that shouldn’t work on me.

That absolutely fucking works on me.

Heat drops hard and fast between my thighs, my scent bursting from me when arousal licks every sensitive spot on my body. I point to the workbench against the far wall and command, “Sit.”

Fletcher obeys without a drop of hesitation. Without a single argument. He simply crosses to the bench and sits, big body barely fitting and hands braced on either side of him. Waiting. Watching.

I walk to him slowly, stripping as I go. My shirt disappears first, leaving me bare from the waist up after my ruined bra was discarded after the incident in the hallway. My pants follow quickly after, and then my underwear joins the strewn clothes somewhere behind me.

The night air brushes over every inch of my exposed skin. My throat is marked, my thighs are bruised, my knee hasn’t stopped screaming at me since I hurt it, my arm still throbs dully after the pharmacy incident, and my body is not clean or healed or simple.

And still, despite it all, Fletcher looks at me like none of that makes me less. As if none of it makes me more available either.

Just mine.

I climb onto his lap facing him and I catch his hands hovering. I catch them before he decides to drop them back to the bench, placing them roughly on my thighs. “Right here.”

His fingers spread over my skin, warm and rough and grounding. I reach between us, gripping him in my hand with a firm hold that makes him groan again, and rub the head of him through the slick heat of me.

Fletcher’s breath turns ragged and he only manages to rasp, “Protection.”

I freeze, but not because I forgot. It’s simply because he remembered when I was too deep inside the haze of arousal to even think clearly.

He reaches into his back pocket with one hand, his movements far rougher than before, and pulls out a packet.